


And the sky above is blue

by TeaHouseMoon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Break Up, Dependency, Fluff and Smut, Jealous Sherlock, Jealousy, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Mycroft's Meddling, Needy Sherlock, Protective Mycroft, Rimming, Smut, Texting, mention of anthea, possibly disfunctional relationship, they're in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-22
Updated: 2015-07-22
Packaged: 2018-04-10 18:03:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4401860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaHouseMoon/pseuds/TeaHouseMoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock hasn't been through a break up before, but he sure as hell knows that that's what happens, when two people break up.<br/>One of them says 'it's over', and then leaves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And the sky above is blue

**Author's Note:**

> If you read this and you liked it, please leave a comment - it will help my non-existent self confidence immensely!

Sherlock has never gone through a break up before now. A break up. Is that what this is? Has John _broken up_ with him? Sherlock would think it's childish - if he were fifteen, then yes, he would call it a break up. But he's not fifteen. He is a thirty-six year old man, and he had a forty-two year old partner - whom he has now separated from. A separation - this is what two adults call this.

Sherlock bites his lower lip and frowns at his own thoughts. Stupid. He is really that stupid that he's standing here, looking outside a window forlornly, pondering the minutia of the grammatical classification of what just happened to him.

Unbelievable, really. But this is his first break up, and he has no prior frame of reference to know how one behaves in the event of a break up - no, 'separation'.

He knows John loves him. He knows. John loves him; and he loves John. He will not stop loving John. That's not how it works. John is his heart, John is his Pressure Point, John is what he needs to protect from danger. John is the only important person to him. He doesn't just stop loving John.

A red car drives past down the road, in front of Mycroft's house. Sherlock follows it with his eyes; then, once the car has disappeared around the corner, he looks up at the grey sky. A grey sky is dreary and lifeless; when one is mourning the loss of a partner - figurative loss, of course - a dreary grey sky should instil sadness and exacerbate sorrow. People tend to cry if they see a grey sky when they are sad.  
But Sherlock can't cry. He's cried a lot in the past two years; he's cried more than he's ever done in the rest of his life, truthfully. But he can't cry now; his eyes are a dull blue and empty. Mostly, he can't cry because there is no point - he deserved what happened, anyway. Sherlock knew what he was doing when he lied to John. Well, not lied - what he did was omit portions of the truth. It was to keep John safe; it was because he and Mycroft had to sort the situation the best way they knew how and for that to work, John could not know. Frankly, John did not even _have_ to know.  
But John had made him promise that they would have no secrets. That they would tell each other everything, if it had to work between them, because they just could not afford to keep the truth from each other, with the sort of life they led. It hadn't worked well in the past at all. John wanted to know everything, every little detail - 'if you know it, Sherlock, then I want to know it too', he had said. Shouted, really. 'I'm tired of being kept in the dark'.

John had not liked Sherlock rolling his eyes at him and looking away as a response.

John had said that obviously Sherlock still did not consider him important enough that he should know, too. John had said that Sherlock still insisted in making decisions for him. When Sherlock tried to respond, John had shouted that he didn't want to hear it. John had visibly gritted his teeth, like he does when he's about to snarl at someone, and then he'd said it was over. 'It's over, Sherlock'. He'd stated.

Then he'd stomped past Mycroft - this had all happened in Mycroft's house, in his posh immaculate office, to add insult to injury - and he was gone.

Sherlock hasn't been through a break up before, but he sure as hell knows that that's what happens, when two people break up.  
One of them says 'it's over', and then leaves.

 

 

                                                              

                                                                                                                       *****

 

 

 

It's a few hours later, when Sherlock is sitting on the armchair in one of his brother's spare rooms - his brother's house is considerably large, of course, and his armchair is covered in expensive velvet, and dust - that his phone lights up. Sherlock hears the text message alert, but it takes him a few moments to open his eyes and unravel his fingers from where they are steepled in front of his mouth, because he was thinking.

He knows who that is, anyway.

 

_Are you alright?_

Sherlock doesn't react. He is not surprised, of course. See? John loves him.

 

Another ping.

 

_You can go back to Baker Street. I'll be gone in a couple of hours._

Sherlock breathes in, slowly, then breathes out in a long, long sigh. If John were here, he would get angry and tell him that he is being disrespectful again.

 

_I don't intend to go back to Baker Street at present. SH._

_Come on, Sherlock. I know you hate staying at Mycroft's. You don't have to, you know._

Sherlock bites his lower lip again, and wonders if John is doing it on purpose. If he's trying to taunt him. Is he making sure Sherlock doesn't forget what happened? That he knows that John is moving out?  
Sherlock grits his teeth, and sticks out his chin defiantly, as if John is actually there in the room with him. He can be furious, too; just because he was the one to make John angry first doesn't mean he can't be annoyed as well. John is being unfair and ridiculous and cruel, and Sherlock doesn't have to stand for it.

His phone lights up with another text; Sherlock checks it, begrudgingly.

 

_At least eat something, please._

_Don't make me call Mycroft to check._

 

John has added the second text almost as an afterthought. He's trying to be funny. Sherlock doesn't want to be funny. His heart is breaking and he knows he has to sit there and take it because it's his fault, but he doesn't want to be funny.

 

 

_Mycroft wouldn't pick up the phone. Mycroft doesn't want to speak to you. SH_

 

And, although it sounds funny - it sounds petty, Sherlock knows - it's actually the truth; Mycroft would not answer John's call, let alone give him information about his brother, because John has left his brother and Mycroft is in full over-protective mode right now. While Sherlock hates it at the best of times, right now he doesn't want his brother to stop. If John is being cruel, then Sherlock has Mycroft who can be cruel to John in return.

A reply, however, doesn't come.  
Sherlock's heart starts beating a bit faster. He was calm when John started texting - but he isn't now that he's stopped. Sherlock wanted him to text. Is this what happens, when one breaks up with someone? You want to be angry at them, but you want them to speak to you?

Sherlock runs his right hand through his hair, frustrated, and stands abruptly. The same window greets him, with the same curtains and the same wallpaper around it, the same colour as it was earlier - but the sky outside now is black. It's night time - he's been in that room for most of the day.  
He looks outside, at the building across, once again worrying his lower lip between his teeth, mind whirring.

"I wouldn't let him in".

Mycroft's voice. Mycroft, who is standing just outside the door to the guest room. Still immaculately dressed in his tailored grey slacks, dark grey waistcoat, red tie and expensive grey suit jacket.

"I wouldn't let him in, if he came here, Sherlock. I hope you know this".

Sherlock has to close his eyes for a few moments to keep his composure. What is everyone on about tonight? Have they all decided to annoy him to death?

He sighs again, loudly.

"John isn't coming here, Mycroft. You needn't worry".

He didn't mean to say what he said, or to say it the way he said it. It sounded regretful and wishful and he is disgusted.  
He keeps looking outside, wishing everyone in the world could disappear right now.

"I will have your dinner brought up", Mycroft says. Then he leaves.

 

 

                                                                                                                       *****

 

 

Sherlock dreams of John. In his dream, he and John are in bed, and they are naked. It's not a sex dream - sex is so crass, and crude, and Sherlock has no interest in sex per se. Sherlock is only interested in sex with John, and he is interested because sex with John is like everything else, with John: sharing, intimacy, understanding. Pleasure, with a little pain, and then more pleasure, and needing John, and John needing Sherlock. He only likes sex because John likes it, and because it comes with praise, with John saying that he is beautiful, and gorgeous, and perfect. He likes sex because it comes with kissing.

In his dream, John is above him, kissing him. Sherlock can feel his tongue, his lips; John's hand in his hair.

John was his first, proper kiss; John was his first in everything. Sherlock abhors clichés, and also he loathes social constructs - but when he thinks that his virginity belongs to John he feels a long, satisfying shiver run through his whole body. He wouldn't have done it because he doesn't bother with sex, usually, but after feeling how John desired him, after feeling that John wanted it and that he could give him this, Sherlock melted. Completely melted - and he hates metaphors and internet speak, too, by the way.

But the truth is, there isn't a better way to describe it. The pleasure he'd felt with John inside of him, with John pushing, and grunting above him, into his mouth - Sherlock had never thought he could feel that way. All the way through John had told him he was beautiful. He'd said that he felt so good, that he was beautiful and gorgeous.

The pleasure had been so that Sherlock's eyes had rolled back.

Sherlock wakes up. He has to blink several times because he doesn't recognise the room he's in. The warmest, softest sheets are wrapped around his body; the sky outside the window is still black.

Sherlock rubs at his face with his left hand; his cheeks, and the pillow are wet.

 

                              

                                                                                                                       *****

 

 

 

He will be damned if he cries again. Sherlock sniggers to himself, at himself, the following morning. He wants to do things, but his brain needs to think, and this is the kind of thinking that requires his full, complete, unwavering attention – so it's not like he can do something else at the same time.

He steeples his fingers in front of his mouth and closes his eyes. He is again sitting on Mycroft’s velvety armchair. The sky is still grey.

He doesn't even have his equipment to hand. So it's not like he can catch up on one of his experiments.

Dull.

Sherlock gets up, grabs his coat, and leaves the bedroom. Mycroft will be most displeased when he finds out: he's enjoying babysitting him, although from a distance, through his staff, really. Sherlock thinks Anthea must have been parked outside the house since he got here, since before his fight with John - because Sherlock could bet Mycroft saw it coming. Of course he did.

No matter. Sneaking out is way too easy, he doesn't even have to use the back door like when they were kids.

He jumps into a cab, and directs it to Baker Street.

 

 

 

                                                                                                                       *****

 

 

Indeed, John is not there. Of course, Sherlock certainly wasn't expecting him to be. He sighs again – Baker Street is dull.

He should have known, really.

If Sherlock were a drinker, he would be pouring himself a glass right now. But he loathes the feeling of not being able to think; most people find it a relief, in fact for most people, that's exactly the point. But Sherlock is having problems thinking already as it is; he doesn't need to make it worse.

He pulls out his phone, and fires off a text before he can stop himself.

 

_I miss you. SH_

 

There's no reply for the longest of times. Sherlock worries his bottom lip with his teeth mercilessly, and fidgets with his hair, then leans with a hip against the kitchen table and stares at the kettle as it boils. He doesn't care. He doesn't care. Caring is daft and useless.

His phone pings.

 

 _Sherlock_.

 

Sherlock bites his lower lip again and types another message, while the kettles puffs away, forgotten.

 

_I am back at Baker Street. Just for tonight. SH_

_Your belongings are still here. SH_

From where he's leaning against the kitchen table Sherlock looks outside the window again, and scowls at the stupid grey sky.

Another message appears.

 

_Well maybe I'll come pick up some of my stuff tonight, then._

 

_*****_

 

 

Sherlock doesn't know what happens when people break up. Does one meet with their ex again, after separating? Does one have sex with them? He doesn't know. But John tastes of whisky, and his smell and flavour are intoxicating. Sherlock is under him on the couch, and they're kissing, like in his dream. Sherlock feels John's pelvis pressed against his own, feels John's hand under his shirt, over his right nipple. John moves his fingers accidentally as they kiss, and Sherlock moans.

Sherlock doesn't know how they'll be able to have sex on the couch, they've never had sex on that couch because it's old and rickety and too narrow for the both of them. But all the same he sneaks his hands down to his own trousers and undoes them and pulls them down, while John opens his with haste, without even breaking the kiss. The kiss which is now uncoordinated and sloppy, and Sherlock is finding it difficult to breathe and has to turn away and take a deep breath. John's mouth goes down to his throat and starts biting; it's not painful but Sherlock can certainly feel it.

John's hand sneaks down to his back pocket, and when he stops biting at Sherlock’s throat he is tearing at a condom packet with his teeth.

“Just – just for lube”, John pants, apologetically, against his mouth when Sherlock’s eyes widen in surprise.

They’ve never used condoms, since the beginning, because they'd both been tested and they weren't sleeping with other people. So they didn't need them.  
Sherlock watches John fumble on himself, putting the condom on without even looking, because his eyes are closed and hazy with arousal. Sherlock’s own eyes close again, because John is rutting against his abdomen and, oh god.

Okay. Okay. He nods in delayed response to the condom announcement – though John isn't even looking. He opens his legs a little wider and John settles in between them, and then Sherlock arches his back and moans deeply from within his throat. John grunts in response, and his pelvis starts picking up the pace. John's thrusts are deep and hard, Sherlock can feel him inside and has to scrunch up his eyes at the sheer pleasure and violence of it. He loves this, he loves having John like this, he loves that he can give John this. He wants to kiss him and he bends himself a little like a plasticine doll in order to connect their mouths; John kisses him back, and leans down to touch Sherlock. Sherlock comes, whining into John's mouth. John follows him, and then lowers his head down onto Sherlock’s sweaty chest, breathing hard.

 

 

_*****_

 

_Is it Sarah? SH_

 

Sherlock's text is abrupt, he knows, and he allows John a couple of minutes of surprise. He still fidgets though, and thinks thinks thinks. The teapot is steaming away on the table, tea ready but currently being ignored - he doesn't even know why Mrs Hudson bothers.  
The phone pings.

_What?_

_Is it Sarah? The person you're seeing? Is it Sarah? SH_

Sherlock has to keep himself from adding an exclamation mark or two at the end of the question - come on, John. You're being daft!  
And John is being particularly daft today, in fact, because it takes him exactly twelve minutes to respond. Sherlock has composed two more text drafts by the time the answer comes.

 

_You're being ridiculous._

Sherlock positively _growls._

_ANSWER ME. SH_

_ANSWER ME OR I WILL COME AND ASK YOU IN PERSON. SH_

Sherlock is reeling by now; he's sure John is doing it on purpose. This was Sherlock's first real relationship and this is his first break up and for God's sake, if he wants to know whether his ex partner is sleeping with someone else already he should receive an answer, and promptly! Of course John is. Of course John is sleeping with someone else and this is why he used a condom. He is sleeping with someone else and this someone is most certainly Sarah - not a new one, no, there wasn't enough time for John to seduce someone new, unless he was cheating on Sherlock already and Sherlock doesn't even want to think about that, no, one crisis at a time please - it is certainly Sarah because all John had to do was go back to her, although Sherlock didn't think John capable of doing what he did, sleeping with both of them at the same time, especially because he told Sherlock that he loved him and people in love don't do things like that-

When he manages to take a breath, he is almost hyperventilating. He berates himself - stupid, stupid - and clenches his fists tightly.

 

_Sherlock, calm down please._

He's calm.

 

_Where are you? Tell me where you are. SH_

Sherlock is about to call Mycroft and ask him to track John's phone right this moment, and John must feel this, because his reply comes a few seconds later.

 

_I'm at Mike's. I'm not seeing Sarah and I don't know why you would think that. Please calm down._

_And stay put, it's nearly midnight._

As if Sherlock cares.

 

 

_*****_

 

 

 

It doesn't take him long to get to Stamford's. Somehow he doesn't think Mike will be too happy to see him, not at this hour, but that's because ordinary people place more importance in useless social conventions than in real, serious things like needing to find the truth about a murder, about a robbery, or about your partner leaving you. Sherlock doesn't care about social conventions at all.

He jumps out of the cab and buzzes at Mike's door; when it opens, standing on the other side it's not Mike, but John.

Sherlock was sure he had so many things he wanted to say, but as he looks at John looking at him, all he can do is close his mouth, and lower his gaze, unsure. He was expecting to have to put up more of a fight for John to come and see him, honestly.

"You couldn't stay put, could you", John says, and it's not a question. More surprisingly, his tone isn't angry.

"John...", he tries, wanting to say everything, everything his mind has conjured up during the few days of his first break up. But John's hand reaches out for him and his thumb strokes over Sherlock's lower lip, the one he's been biting on for the past few days.  
John stretches up, and kisses that lip. Then his upper lip. Then his whole mouth, gently, while Sherlock stands there, frozen on the spot.

Until a moment later, when he comes to and takes a step back abruptly.

"No!".

John's hand drops off his body, and now nothing of John's is touching anything of Sherlock's, and that's exactly how things should be because, _what?_!

"Is this how it works?”, Sherlock asks, furious.

John keeps staring.

"Is this what happens? When you end a relationship? Is this how it works?", Sherlock repeats, frustration in his voice.

He sees John's eyes turn sad. He hates when John's eyes are sad.  
John runs a hand over his face.

“I don't… I don't know, Sherlock”.

“You've had your share of enough vacant partners to know what happens!”, Sherlock bites out, voice raised, blue eyes on fire.

And now John will actually be angry, Sherlock doesn't need deducing skills to know that, but big deal, John was angry at him before this, it's the reason this whole thing happened, isn't it?

Instead, John laughs.

  
And it's not ironic, either. It's an actual, genuine laugh, complete with amused eyes looking up at Sherlock from under blonde eyelashes.  
Sherlock is confused almost to the point of tears.

"Yes", John says, and then sighs. "Yes, you're quite right. I have had enough vacant partners to know what happens". He chuckles once more very briefly, and looks away, down at the door. Then he looks up again.

"And that's exactly why this time it's different. _You're_ different, Sherlock. I should have expected nothing less, really".

Sherlock frowns, frustrated. John takes a step towards him, and Sherlock promptly steps back.

"I wish you'd let me kiss you", John murmurs, serious this time. He reaches out a hand again, mimicking his previous gesture, thumb stroking Sherlock's lower lip slowly, reverently; Sherlock feels he wants to buck like a wild horse against John's touch, but at the same time he wants to know what's happening.

John comes a little closer.

"You're beautiful". Thumb strokes. "You're gorgeous, and clever, and mad. Utterly and completely mad". Another stroke. "And this is why I love you, Sherlock. God, I love you. Please, let me kiss you".

His tone has acquired a quality of begging by now, and a frisson of pleasure goes through Sherlock at the thought because yes, _he wants to be begged_.

He doesn't resist when John gently stretches up again to kiss him, though he doesn't fully participate yet, because while his heart is beating fast and his body is in turmoil his mind is still active and functioning and he wants to know what John is doing, because this is his first and only break up and it's been hell. Literal, burning, blazing _hell_.

John knows.

"I'm sorry, love. I'm sorry. I thought I was doing the right thing by me but the truth is that I can't leave you. I just can't. I'm sorry I hurt you".

Sherlock holds his breath; his mind stutters.

"And for God's sake, I'm not seeing Sarah, you absolute nutter!" John exclaims, and even his eyes are laughing, though he sobers up when he sees that Sherlock isn't laughing along at all. He sighs.

"I love you. I always have, Sherlock. And God help me, because I can't leave you and now I've got your brother and the whole blooming British army after me".

John chuckles, and then stretches out again, and kisses Sherlock's lips, lightly at first, then more intensely when he finally feels Sherlock cooperating.

Sherlock's heart is beating a million miles a minute and he kisses John back, just kisses him, until the kissing turns into quiet chuckling of his own, too.

 

 

 

_*****_

 

 

 

_Congratulations on getting Doctor Watson back, brother dear. MH_

_I am ever so relieved he is there to look after you, since you escaped from my care like a child playing truant from school. MH_

 

“Hey hey hey”, John chides, reaching out to grab the phone from Sherlock’s hands. “You know your brother, don't raise to his bait!”

“But John”, Sherlock protests, watching John stretch out to place the phone on top of the nightstand, the one at the farthest end of the bed. “He just called me a child. Me! He was the one babysitting me as if I was an infant!”

John smiles above him, and lowers his head to kiss Sherlock’s throat languidly. The ivory skin is so delicate and sensitive, and Sherlock can't help but close his eyes and arch his neck to give John more access.

“He should… He should get a pet animal to exert his overbearing attitude on”, Sherlock grumbles. John chuckles against the juncture of neck and collarbone, and then bites down. “Perhaps… ah.. Perhaps a chimp… Or a killer crocodile”.

He feels John chuckle again; then the other man squeezes his hands in his own and brings them up to rest on the pillow, above Sherlock’s head. Holding him by the wrists firmly he joins their mouth, and the kiss is slow and sensual.

“I'm hoping”, John breaks the kiss and speaks on his mouth. “I’m really hoping I can keep you quiet for the next hour or so…”

“Isn't that what you always want”, Sherlock almost rolls his eyes, and his hand flies down to tangle into John’s hair when the other man slides lower along his naked body, kissing exposed skin. Sherlock looks at the ceiling, and then bites his lower lip when John's mouth gets to its destination between his legs.

He's always thought oral sex to be pointless and awkward; but oral sex with John is just as wonderful as anything else, with John.

“No”, John murmurs. He gently guides Sherlock’s leg until it's wrapped around John’s shoulder. “Let me rephrase that then. Only keep quiet if you have to moan about your brother”. His lips kiss Sherlock further back past his testicles, soft and scalding hot, and full of reverence. “Mmm. Different kinds of moans, I definitely want to hear”.

Sherlock scrunches his eyes shut and cries out, low in his throat, at the feeling of John's lips making love to him, his tongue caressing his skin and setting his nerves on fire. His abdomen tenses up, muscles in his thigh flexing desperately, and he can no longer breathe steadily, alternating between deep and shallow breaths instead and soon he's light headed, dizzy, but pleasantly so. His body wants wants wants, so his hand grips John's hair and tugs gently but petulantly.

“Mmm, no. Like this. Like this…”, John scolds, his voice husky, his own hand untangling sherlock’s from his hair and bringing it to rest on Sherlock’s bony left hip. John hasn’t opened his eyes and his mouth is still kissing Sherlock in the most intimate of places, and he's obviously enjoying every moment of it. Sherlock surrenders; when John's other hand reaches out to stroke his cock, he comes.

 

 

                                                                                                                       *****

 

 

_Please take care that this does not happen again, John. I will not tolerate my brother having his heart broken. By anyone. I hope this is understood. Have a pleasant day. MH_

“What does he want now!”, Sherlock growls sleepily in response to the ping of the mobile when they're laying in bed, after. John looks up briefly from the screen - it's his mobile this time - then looks back down. Sherlock growls again, impatient.

“John?”

John reaches down, smiles; and kisses his mouth.

“I love you”, he says, looking straight into Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock blinks, confused because that's surely not what he was asking?

“I love you too”, he responds nonetheless because of course he will – there is only one thing he will ever say when John is telling him he loves him.

John smiles and goes back to his phone and types a message.

 

_I might have tried a couple of times now, but the truth is I can't live without Sherlock. So that's not going to happen. You don't need to try and frighten me. (It's not working by the way). :-) Pleasant day to you too, Mycroft. JW_

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
